


Maybe We Are Sinners

by prettybrilliantfunny



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Whumptober 2018
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-07-23 07:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16154135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybrilliantfunny/pseuds/prettybrilliantfunny
Summary: A collection of short, prompted ficlets for the month of October centered on Julian & Garak. None of the chapters are connected in anyway, though, some will be episode codas.





	1. "stabbed"

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song "Julian" by Say Lou Lou.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-relationship

 

 

Garak hadn’t survived this long without getting stabbed once or twice. 

 

 

That didn’t mean he enjoyed it all that much. It was so terribly slow—and all that _mess_. No, give him a nice, clean phaser wound any day and—“ _Garak!”_

The intense pressure vanished (if not the intense _pain_ ) and then the good doctor was there in his line of vision, phaser still outstretched. On the ground, a smoldering burn nearly a foot wide across his chest, lay their attacker—motionless and most certainly dead. “My dear doctor, the was no need to overreact." 

Julian started, knocked out of whatever trance he’d been in. He fumbled his phaser back into his belt and pulled out his medkit instead. “He stabbed you!”

Garak glanced down at the weapon still protruding from his chest. “Ah. Yes.”

The blade had entered just under his left lung, judging by the odd sensation. He tried to keep his breaths shallow. “I think—“

“Hold still.” The doctor moved towards him, loaded hypospray in hand.

“It won’t work,” Garak countered. Even before the chemical ramp-up from the implant, Federation painkillers were ineffective across species.

“Be quiet.” The hand on Garak’s jaw was warm, if insistent. He didn’t even feel the pinch of the hypo, but the rush of relief—hot and buzzing—was immediate.   If he closed his eyes he could almost ignore the eleven centimeters of metal embedded in his chest.

Garak’s eyes narrowed. “Have you been scanning my physiology?”  
  
Bashir pressed— _hard_ —on his chest to apply pressure; he winced. 

“You’re welcome.”

“There’s a reason all Cardassian medical files were deleted from the station before it was released to the Federation.”

“Yes, yes…the classified information of your blood type is safe with me.”

With the medical compress primed to staunch the certain flow of blood, Bashir placed one hand firmly around the handle of the weapon and the other braced against Garak’s shoulder.

“You’re not the only species with a vestigial tail, you know."  
  
The comment took Garak utterly by surprise—he blamed the blood loss. For a moment he just stared up at Bashir, fighting an overwhelming degree of fondness for the man. It was hardly the time or the place, after all—and he was being so _difficult_ … 

“Remind me to show you a picture of a chimpanzee when we get back,” Bashir said with a wry chuckle. “Now quite fidgeting or I’ll nick your second pulmonary artery.”

“ _Third_ pulmonary artery, my dear.”

Bashir grinned. 

“Noted.”


	2. "restraints"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (6x18 - "Inquisition" Coda)

 

 

It isn’t the first time he’s been in irons, but it’s certainly the most public. Being frogmarched through it also fell in his top five most embarrassing displays in the Promenade.

Kira was a radiating beacon of fury—righteous and just as futile. He believed her when she said she’d do everything in her power to get him out. It’s just that he didn’t think her power would amount to very much against the full might of Starfleet’s Internal Affairs. It would have to be a fullscale jailbreak.

Still, it meant something to hear her say it. For all that they bickered, he considered the major a friend, and—Garak was standing at the back of the crowd.

With everything that was going on around him—the assurances of his friends, the continuous sharp jabs of Lt. Chandler’s phaser rifle at his back, the crowd of spectators—he shouldn’t have drawn his attention. But Julian’s eyes found him like a moth finds flame, like Garak was a burning building. He was wearing his golden tunic, the one he’d made himself.

Four seconds. That was all. But enough for a man with an eidetic memory; more than enough. He fixed Garak’s face in his perfect memory—just in case.

Even after—when the holoprogram went down and Section 31 revealed themselves, when he found out that they’d programmed simulacra of the crew to withstand even _his_ scrutiny—it was that moment that stuck with him. That in a simulation designed to test his loyalty to the Federation, he hadn’t looked to Kira, or Captain Sisko, or even Quark, but to Garak. A Cardassian and a spy. An inhabitant of the station so clearly inconsequential to the crew and to Julian that he hadn’t been given a single line of dialogue in the charade.

 

 

He wondered what those four seconds looked like on the neurosynaptic relay, if it was visible in the peaks and valleys of his neuro-electrical responses. And if Sloan would have been as  _benevolent..._ if he had recognized it for what it was.

 

 


	3. "bloody hands"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-relationship

“Out, out, damned spot.”

 

Julian almost dropped the scrubbrush—startled—but recovered, if a bit slower than usual, his expression disapproving as it landed on the tailor now standing quite at ease in his bathroom doorway. The red was long gone from the metal basin, but it seemed to cling to his hands. Julian shifted to block Garak’s view and continued washing.

 “What are you doing here, Garak?”

Not _how_ did you get in to my sealed quarters, or _why_ he hadn’t heard—no, they were long past that, Garak was pleased to note. The good doctor simply expected the unexpected from the Cardassian, chalking it all up to that ridiculous notion of his that Garak was a spy.

“I was taking my evening constitutional when I thought of paying my dear friend a visit.”

A sigh. “It’s 0200.”

Garak clasped his hands behind his back and smiled. “We tailors keep strange hours.”

Julian didn’t rise to the bait—the obvious lie wasn’t a challenge—but he did ask, “If I’m Lady Macbeth, what does that make you?”

“Sorry I ever let you convince me to give Shakespeare ‘another go’,” Garak grimaced. “Honestly, doctor, didn’t the man ever grow tired of documenting his own genius?”

Julian tried to muster up a grin but wasn’t sure if it took. “I’d have thought you’d enjoy that.”

Garak turned up his nose, as he always did when he wanted to be derisive, and said, “I find it best to never let on how clever you are.”

The doctor flinched.

Steam was emanating from the small sink in a mounting cloud when Garak took Julian’s hands firmly by the wrists and moved them out of the water’s spray. The dark complexion had begun to mottle under the heat, the intensity of his scrubbing. Garak switched off the taps. Julian stood there placidly, not reacting—not even when Garak wrapped a towel around his dripping hands and, with more gentleness than before, began to pat them dry.

“They were trying to kill you.”

“I know.”

Garak tried to steer them to the couch, but Julian wouldn’t go.

Garak’s hand was on the doctor’s elbow. “But—?”

“But I’m a doctor.” _Meant to preserve life, not snuff it out--_. He’d heard the doctor’s same lament half a dozen ways, but this time the words didn’t come. Bashir’s face crumpled, confusion and pain exposed there. He looked _lost_. “I’m a doctor,” he repeated, his voice terribly small.

“I know,” Garak said—for all the things Bashir hadn’t been able to say out loud, for the faces that would no doubt haunt his dreams for many nights to come—because he did. He knew _him_.

He pulled, just a little, just enough, and Julian—at last—followed. “Did I ever tell you about the doctor I met on Romulus? He had absolutely none of your natural charm, my dear, but he _did_ have the strangest request for his garden…”

And so it went, long into the morning. Sleep was out of the question, but so long as Garak talked Julian listened. And when he listened, he didn’t have to _think_. And slowly, the rawness of his skin cooled. His hands stilled their shaking and fell at last to rest in his lap, forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should also note that just about all of these are gonna be written 6:30-7 in the morning.


	4. "insomnia"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> established relationship

 

Julian preferred to sleep with the balcony doors open. A foolish compromise of their security, of course, but while this turned some nights too cold for Garak’s taste, he couldn’t deny there were times it was almost worth the risk. Cardassia in spring was worthy of all the poems ever written about it. His was a planet of dust and sand, and even before the war it could be a hard place to call home, but it was _beautiful_ too—in countless ways. 

The pink ribbon of light when the suns set in tandem. The sudden, thrumming burst of life when the rivers returned. The mUra birds’ song. _And spring_.

It smelled of spice and fresh rain—Julian had once likened it to an earth spice, _clove_ , but to Garak it would always be the smell of home. Cardassia was at its best in spring. The few long, cold nights on the station when sentiment triumphed over control and Garak allowed himself to miss, to _truly miss_ , his home planet – it was always to this time his memories returned.

When the paired suns revolved ever closer, the hyla fruit would grow heavy in anticipation of summer, and all across the Southern continent the treeline would blush crimson and coral. For two weeks, the tart fruit would turn sweet and every Cardassian would indulge—plucking fruit straight from the branch and eating it right there on the street, the juices staining their hands and mouths. Children would make a game of hunting for the discarded pits, fighting over those that formed a perfect sphere; hard and smooth when sand-scrubbed hyla seeds made the perfect marbles.

It wasn’t a Cardassian spring without the laughter of so many children.

 

 

 

It had rained all day. Their garden had been sorely in need and, in fact, most of the city had been content to shelve their work for the day and enjoy the long-awaited rains, joining one another in the cafes for tea or under the awnings of street stalls, the marketplace bazaar stretching it hours long past dark as patrons lingered amidst the rain, hands dipping out into the open air like benediction. 

Julian had curled up with a book and almost immediately been lulled into sleep, his body curved towards the open balcony doors.

Garak had joined him for a time, shamelessly stealing his warmth, but sleep had eluded him. He’d abandoned his own reading beside Julian’s padd and, appropriately shielded with an afghan armament from the settee, braved the chill of the balcony.

The smell of rich, wet earth filled the small space—matched by home-smell and the faint tang of ozone. Storm coming. Garak had been long gone this morning by the time the rains began, but Julian must have carried all of their plants onto the balcony, covering the small table with a wild assortment of pots and trenchers and tucking the larger basins into the corners until the street could hardly be seen through the foliage.

He ran his fingers over the broad leaf of a Kardasi fryn, bright and lurid green under its coat of rain, and was horribly and indisputably filled with fondness. “Oh, my dear,” he murmured.

He looked back at Julian, still asleep—bare feet recklessly exposed. He watched for a while, the rain a steady presence beside him, his mind drifting to lunches and wires and the long, dim corridors of an old space station. Julian shifted and sighed, some dream drawing the soft sound from him, and his arm stretched out in sleep across the empty side of the bed.

No, Garak thought. Some things were certainly worth the risk.

 

 


	5. "no, stop!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-relationship, implied requited interest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (5x14 - "In Purgatory's Shadow" // 5x15 - "By Inferno's Light" Coda)

 

“No, stop!”

 

Bashir got three steps into the fighting ring before the butt of a rifle slammed into his temple. The strike staggered him. His brain—augmented and fortified as it was—was not meant to rattle in his skull like a dabo wheel. He made it another step before his equilibrium rolled and he dropped to one knee.

“ _Doctor—_!”

Oh. Worf.

That was the last thing his mind registered before a sharp bark of laughter and a sharper impact at the back of his skull rendered him wholly unconscious.

 

 

When he came to, the match was over. Most of the Jem’Hadar had dispersed—back to their posts, their tortures and their patrols—and, as several hands hauled him to his feet, the other prisoners who’d lingered to catch the last of the theatrics, scattered as well. No deaths today.

General Martok was on his feet, but the wall he was leaning against was holding more of his weight than his feet. He was holding his left hand close to his chest. Julian’s vision was still halo-ing around the edges, but even so he could see the mess of blood and mangled tissue.

“See, Worf?” Martok laughed. “—the Doctor is not so easily bested.”

“So it would seem.” That was Worf on his right.

“All the same, I suggest we retire for the evening?” That veneered sharpness—Garak, of course, to his left.

Starting was difficult, but after a few poorly placed steps and some assistance, Julian got his feet back under him. His head was a riot of pain. He was almost certainly concussed, if his vision was anything to go by. It shifted and doubled, sometimes so vigorously that he had to close his eyes and trust Garak to steer him straight until he had the strength to open his eyes again. He half-wondered if they’d encounter another soldier, one who hadn’t been satisfied where the fight had ended; it would not be the first time, nor the second or third.

But no one appeared from the shadows, and the four of them made it back without incident.

“I see now why you were in isolation,” Garak commented mildly. His grip on Julian’s arm, however, was tight and Julian was as touched as he was grateful. He doubted he would have made it back to their barracks without assistance.

“He has a warrior’s spirit,” Martok roared and clapped him heartily on the back with his good hand.

Julian thought he might throw up. It was only Garak’s quick reflexes that kept him from tipping straight off the cot and concussing himself a second time. By the time his vision cleared (and he was certain of his stomach), Worf had escorted the general to the other side of the barracks. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, though they were saying it loudly enough, but he could see the dull shine of the med kit and surmised that Worf had taken over the other Klingon’s treatment.

Garak was fussing, turning his head this way and that, pressing his fingers to his temple in a way that made lightning arc across his pain receptors. Annoyed, Julian tried to pull away. His clumsy attempts to extricate himself were hardly worth noting, but the concussion would keep and—“I’m fine—“

Garak waved the cloth in front of his face, the beautifully embroidered edges identifying it as torn from other man’s tunic, and the whole of it mottled with red.

“You’re bleeding.”

 _Ah._ “I hadn’t realized…”

Julian relaxed, trusting his care to Garak, mind catching up to body at last, . The tailor’s touch softened too. Though he no longer needed to, the press of his thumb and forefinger remained under Julian’s chin—now more to support his weary head than to hold him still. The earlier adrenaline spent, Julian was practically boneless in his slump, his body reminding him that he’d been on the edge of starving for three weeks and heroics came with a cost.

“Might I recommend—“ Garak’s murmur cut through the haze “—not doing that again?”

His voice was pitched low, quiet even for how close they were sitting. Julian doubted anyone else was listening to the Cardassian play nursemaid—and if they were, what secrets were they possibly going to learn?—but he obliged his friend his paranoia and answered equally soft.

“They shattered his hand, Garak.”

“He has another.”

Julian grabbed Garak’s wrist.

The Cardassian went still—his customary smile in place. Julian turned to look at him, brow knitting in pain, and fought the sweep of nausea the movement caused.

“One day they won’t stop with broken bones—they’ll _kill him_.”

He scanned Garak’s face, the familiar ridges and scales, the smile—even now, arguing in the faintest of whispers, it was a comfort. Those pale blue eyes met his and for a moment, he thought he saw understanding there.

“It’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

For a moment.

Julian sighed. “And to think—I was actually happy to see you.”

Garak smirked, and resumed his ministrations, tilting Julian’s head back “And now?”

Julian winced at the press of cloth to the cut, but otherwise relented. “Now, I’m remembering how terribly Cardassian you can be."

“I _am_ Cardassian,” Garak reminded him.

“You’re _insufferable._ ”

He laughed—a faint puff of air against Julian’s jaw as the other man bent over his work. Garak pulled back a little to appraise the wound, commenting, “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”

“Cardassian and insufferable?” Julian quipped. They were still whispering.

Garak didn’t laugh again but Julian could see it in his eyes. They’d always been the most expressive part of him, though, he’d never upset the man by telling him so. He could grin and charm and sell the lie all he wanted, but there was a gleam of truth in his eyes he could never quite conceal. He met that piercing gaze now—and only then did he realize Garak’s hand was still on his jaw.

As if his awareness was a tangible force, Garak let go, his easy smile carrying a joke Julian couldn’t quite make out before he broke his gaze. “Now who’s being insufferable.”


	6. "poisoned"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-relationship

 

 

“This is the last time you’re allowed to pick the restaurant.” 

 

Julian groaned—then immediately regretted it for the way his stomach threatened to make violent contact with his lungs. “It was _Quark’s._ ”

Stretched on the biobed next to him, Garak was the picture of Obsidian discipline, save for the forearm he had pressed over his eyes. “Be that as it may – it was the replimat or Quark’s, and you, dear doctor, chose endless suffering.”

The lights had been dimmed to a more comfortable twilight—Cardassian eyes already intolerant of the station’s normal output, the brightness had sent both of them reeling, hands pressed to thundering headaches.

Nurse Jabara had left them, mercifully, in peace, to go have “a word” with Quark before giving them their second injection. The enzymatic compound had to be administered in spaced out dosages, so until she returned there was nothing else to do but bicker. It took a bit more effort for Julian to needle the other man when each jibe offered threatened to reacquaint him with dinner; still, he managed.

“I thought Cardassians enjoyed suffering."  
  
Garak lifted the arm to glare at him. “For the _state_. Not unseasoned hasperat.” 

Julian laughed. Or would have, if he’d had the energy. “It’s only a little food poisoning—hardly the end of the world.”

“Though not how I’d envisioned my evening,” Garak quipped back. The doctor had to agree.

“So much for the holosuites,” he sighed and shot Garak a rueful smile. The Cardassian snorted, but when he looked at Julian, his next witty rebuttal already prepared, his face went strange. Like glass, almost. Before Julian could begin riddling out what it meant, Garak had slid out of the biobed with an alacrity the doctor found medically astonishing, given how he himself felt like a bowl of _gagh_ , and was abruptly there, at the edge of his bed.

Julian pushed himself onto his elbows, fumbling with his own equilibrium to at least sit up for whatever Garak was up to. A hand on his shoulder kept him from rising any further; to both their benefits as nausea rippled through him at the sudden effort. Julian inhaled slowly to recover, and when he was certain he wasn’t going to vomit all over the tailor’s fine shoes, he lifted his head.

Garak was close. So close Julian had to almost crane his neck to look at him properly. He still looked a little pale, especially around the eye ridges, but his color was returning—visible only to Julian’s enhanced eyes in the gloom. His calculations to modify the restorative for Cardassian physiology had been harried, but clearly successful and—

Garak’s thumb skimmed across Julian’s lower lip. Julian’s brain chased along after it, all thought of speech lost and gone. The soft line of shadow the Cardassian made, leaning over him in the Infirmary’s low light, was almost intimate and Julian caught himself drifting closer, head swimming. Confused. Wondering.

“Garak?” The whispered question dropped like a stone.

“My dear,” Garak replied, his voice uncommonly sober. “I think we have a far greater problem than a missed appointment.”

He pulled back, hand tilting and drawing Julian’s eyes—his quick fingers splayed open, that daring thumb crimson with blood.

Julian’s brain—that clever, augmented thing—stuttered and stalled. He blinked at Garak—now frowning—at the blood and his hand, at his own inability to _think, damnit_. Panic surged in him. He fumbled for his commbadge, clumsy with fingers he could no longer feel. Garak beat him to it.

 

“Jabara to Infirmary—medical emergency.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 8 and I'm already behind. Seems about right.


	7. "betrayed"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-relationship, implied requited interest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (5x16 - "Doctor Bashir, I Presume" Coda)

His friends “understood.” They tried at least, and he knew that they tried because of how terribly obvious they all were about their “understanding” – there were dinner invitations and holosuite trips and an infinite variety of stories shared about their own tense relationships with their parents. 

But none of them were augments. None of Jadzia’s hosts had been genetically modified at birth because they weren’t as sharp or as quick as other Trills. Worf still loved prune juice and Russia and his always-too-human-parents. And Julian? He wasn’t sure. If he could forgive what his parents had done. If what he felt for them could still be tinged at all with love.

Even now—his father on his way to a penal colony and his mother returning home alone—he wasn’t sure if he believed it: that they had done it for his best interest; that his father hadn’t been trying to buy himself a way out of his own mess when he confessed to Starfleet. His father had always been the selfish sort. He’d known it even as a child; even when he’d still been Jules.

Maybe he was selfish too: dragging Garak out onto the Promenade in the middle of the day. A replicated raktajino and a turn about the upper levels were poor compensation for the inconvenience.

 

“May I ask you a terribly personal question? 

“You may ask anything you like,” Garak assured him, pausing to take in the view of the wormhole. “Though, if you care to remember, you’ve never found my answers to be satisfactory.”

“The lies, you mean?” Julian goaded. It was an old argument, one he stepped into as easily as one would a comfortable pair of shoes. Garak smirked and leaned in close, conspiratorial and almost definitely aiming to distact him.

“A good lie is refreshing now and again.”

“Did you forgive him in the end? –Tain?”

Julian had surprised him, he knew (he was, in fact, quite adept at knowing other people), though it was doubtful any of the dozen Bajorans walking around them had noticed any shift at all. It was there, of course—in the subtle jump of nerves along his jaw, the sudden measured rhythm of his breathing. You just had to know what to look for. Ordinarily, he’d be pleased; today he just wanted answers.

He should have known better than to go looking for them in Garak. The Cardassian leaned against the railing beside him, shaking his head.

“ _Sentiment,_ ” Garak chided; just as dismissive as he’d been the last time. He was the only one who spoke of the camp. The others wanted to forget, but Julian was grateful; it was reassuring to be reminded that it hadn’t all been in his head.

Julian smiled ruefully, fingers drumming an idle pattern on the walkway rail. “I come by that one honestly, I’m afraid.”

“Good.”

Julian cocked his head to the side, genuinely surprised (and a little touched) at the blunt reply. Garak met the look head-on with his usual self-assured smirk—always enjoying some secret joke. This time he relented to share it.

“I would hate to think I didn’t know you at all, doctor.”

And Julian laughed, his heart pressed against his ribs like it might catch there.

“Afraid you’d gotten rusty?” He knocked their shoulders together, feeling twenty times lighter when Garak smiled in return.

 

“Perish the thought.”

 


	8. "kidnapped"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> established relationship

 

 

It had been a perfectly lovely afternoon.   
  


The was out, warming them down to the bone as they strolled through the Saturday market. Spice vendors were peddling their wares in heavy clay bowls swung perilously beneath the noses of passers by. A familiar sight to Julian—his childhood rife with bazaars and squares of vendors just like this—he trailed behind, letting Garak lead; joining and unjoining hands in the cover of the crowd whenever something caught his eye and he abruptly changed direction.

A stall selling fine, brightly-dyed silks drew Julian’s gaze. Tucked behind a garish toy shop, it had clearly escaped Garak’s notice. He slowed to look closer, uncertain whether the former tailor would find anything of value there, and felt the immediate pull, protesting the pause.

“Garak,” he called over his shoulder. “Take a look at—“

Garak’s hand was ripped from his. It happened with such force that he was pulled off balance, fingers bruising as he staggered in the direction of where Garak no longer was.

“ _Garak!”_

An alien in a full atmospheric suit was grappling with the Cardassian. The Breen, aggravated by the unexpected resistance coming from the well-dressed man, clocked Garak straight in the mouth, dropping him to one knee. Julian leapt forward with a shout of fear.

He didn’t get more than a few steps. Bodies shoved past him, knocking him into a stall of tapestries in their haste as two humans with Maquis insignia, a Serilian, and a Nausicaan rushed to join the fray—their sights (and fists) set on Garak.

 

It was over in less than a minute.

 

Garak was breathing heavily, blood at the corner of his mouth. At his feet all five would-be kidnappers lay unmoving—unconscious or dead Julian couldn’t be sure from this distance. He wasn’t sure if he cared which at the moment. All things considered, Garak was relatively unscathed and once he’d smoothed his hair down again, you could almost believe the encounter had never happened.

In the stunned silence of the marketplace one of the spectators started clapping.

“They tried to kidnap you!” Julian exclaimed. (The clapping stopped. Around them the crowd awkwardly began to disperse). Garak raised one eye-ridge, his mouth twisting wryly.

“Yes, I was there."

“In broad daylight.”

Garak brushed the dirt from his sleeves and stepped over the Breen’s body to rejoin Julian. “It would appear they were not the most intelligent of operatives,” he sniffed.

Julian’s eyes narrowed. Garak continued to fiddle with his sleeves, searching out a handkerchief with that same stiff efficiency Julian recognized all too well. “You’re offended.”

“What? “Garak started in surprise, making a poor show of covering it by tending to his split lip with a dramatic flourish. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You _are!_ ” Julian shook his head, trying not to laugh. “You’re offended your own kidnapping was executed so poorly.”

Garak threw up his arms.

“An open market!—multiple exit points?—countless witnesses?” Garak fumed. He dropped his voice and hissed, “It’s _insulting_.”

Not knowing what else to say, Julian settled a comforting hand on his arm. “I’m sorry darling.”

“I _am_ the Castellan after all,” muttered Garak. “You would think that would count for something.”

“Well,” Julian pointed out, “they did send five men.”

Garak considered this. “That _was_ rather complimentary…”

“Maybe next time will be better,” Julian offered; Garak sighed.

“I live in hope.” He folded the bloody handkerchief and tucked it away before offering Julian his arm. “Lunch?”

“Lead on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> behind on everything; always and forever.


	9. "manhandling"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> established relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of Bashir and Garak on Earth.

 

It had been years since Julian was last on Earth; Paris, it must have been. Not a time he was interested in revisiting however happy he had believed himself to be at the time. He certainly wasn’t about to revisit it with _Garak_ in tow. 

Despite the numerous efforts still underway on Cardassia—many of them initiated or spearheaded by the former tailor himself—Garak had insisted on accompanying him on the two-week long journey to Earth. The new Castellan of Cardassia had spent the majority of the trip on subspace: coordinating relief workers, finalizing architectural plans for the Federation Embassy, and leaving very thorough (see: _aggressive_ ) instructions for the young man who’d promised to tend his garden while Garak was away.

But they also had dinner together every night—a luxury Julian had latched onto so entirely it seemed impossible that he’d have to give it up eventually. By the time they sat down in their quarters to eat, work was set aside, banned until the morning. It felt almost like it had on the station. Before the war. When they’d both been younger (if not young) and neither had held the future of an entire species in his hands.

 

By day two of the medical conference, Julian was daydreaming about that cramped shuttle. When he wasn’t speaking on panels, he was bombarded by unfamiliar faces; some doctors, more reporters, and some federation officials who’d thought to ambush him in lieu of all the subspace messages he’d ignored or binned. He’d managed to dissuade the Xenobiology Institute and the Commissioner for Pathogenic Research, yet the young woman from Interplanetary Relations was proving especially persistent. 

“But as the official ambassador to Cardassia, you would have unprecedented access—oh! _Castellan_!”

Julian half-turned, equally surprised, just as Garak reached them, melting out of the milling crowd. He’d been gone before Julian had properly woken up, so he took the moment to appreciate the sharp cut of his suit, the tasteful collar accentuating his neck ridges.

He wasn’t entirely sure how or why, but he was there. With a smile that promised a trick or two. _Thank the prophets._

“I can assure you…access is not an issue."

Julian might have blushed, but the woman was too busy floundering to notice. Garak gave her a polite nod. “If you’ll excuse us.”

Anyone fluent in Kardasi would have registered the condescension immediately—the twisting jab of two polite inflections—but, then again, most people didn’t realize Kardasi was a two-tiered language. It was determined physically not tonally. The woman flushed, relieved to have not caused an incident, and stammered an apology as they parted.

Julian ducked his head as they walked so as not to be overheard. Their shoulders bumped. “Have I mentioned how attractive I find your impeccable timing?”

Garak’s faux smile twisted wryly into something more genuine. “I don’t believe so, but I shall add it to the list.”

With a cool hand pressed to Julian’s lower back, he guided him expertly around the crowds and out through a side door marked, in multiple alien languages and iconography, **“Do Not Open. Alarm Will Sound.”**  


The alarm _didn’t_ sound.

  
For his part, Julian refused to look at Garak. He was certain that the smug smirk he already knew was there would only grow if he gave him the satisfaction. Instead, he turned his attention to where his lover had secreted him off to.

A lush veranda curved out before them in a slender ellipse. There was a gravel path that ran along the edge and another through the center, both lined with blooming grasses and late summer flowers. It was beautiful—and _entirely empty_.

“You’re welcome,” Garak murmured, mouth close to his ear.

Julian fought the urge to smile “Did I say anything?” he asked, pulling an innocent face.

Garak only chuckled. Hand still at his back, he urged him into motion again and together they set off down the central path. If he was being honest (and one of them had to be), it was exactly what Julian had needed, though he wouldn’t have known it. Their tiny shuttle and even tinier cabin had sounded sublime in the mad crush of the convention hall, but now, the cool-scented breeze against his skin, he couldn’t imagine anything better.

The veranda looked out across the bay. Below them sprawled the back lawn of the university. Many, many floors below, the grass was dotted with small dark shapes, the patrons moving about indistinguishable from one another. Above them only the sky and the setting sun could be seen; the loom of the building invisible behind them. Curtained in the sweet smell of flowers, he felt the tension of the morning bleed away.

It was like breathing, to curve his body to Garak’s and tilt his chin just so. And his love obliged, kissing him thoroughly under the late afternoon sky—again and again. Held close like a promise.


	10. "drugged" pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka 'the one with the sex pollen.' part one.
> 
> pre-relationship

 

The jungle-based atmosphere of the planet was a welcome respite from the drafty Promenade. Though, ostensibly, he was there to help the away team triangulate a Cardassian distress signal, Garak knew it had been at the good doctor’s insistence that he do so from the planet’s surface with the rest of the team rather than remain on the shuttle. Bashir had hardly been able to control his delight any more than Garak had his own surprise as they materialized together in the sweet and humid air. Sentiment was best avoided, but he was grateful all the same.

 

For about an hour and fourteen minutes.

 

He’d been bent over a tricorder, minding his own business as the others tromped through the undergrowth with all the grace of a herd of targs, when the plant next to him exploded. Pollen as fine as dust caught him in the side of the face, virulent purple petals unfurling into a triumphant banner. 

Garak coughed against the sickly sweet taste, turning his face into his sleeve until the green shower of pollen had ended. (He _refused_ to sneeze.) When he deemed it safe to lift his head, the offending blossom had drawn itself back into a closed spiral and the evidence of its _wholly unprovoked_ attack on him had disappeared. He could still feel the itch of it along his left side, but all of it had already been absorbed in the sticky heat of the atmosphere.

Gratitude substantially diminished, Garak marched after the doctor—the entire planet and its pleasant environment now decidedly less so.   
  


~~~  
  


The spike in body temperature had been noticeable, but put aside; the terrain was taxing, after all. But then the tremors started—chills spiking through the heat—his blood rushing in his ears and then, decidedly, _south_. Bashir’s proximity, in particular, made him want to crawl out of his scales, and when the Doctor paused to take a reading, Garak stopped with him—a cord pulling taut when he tried to move away. 

Garak was master of his own will. His entire existence on the station, in exile, was marked by deprivation. He would not be bested by a lurid flower’s overestimation of its own worth. Or the smooth line of the doctor’s throat.

Garak swallowed. He hadn’t noticed Bashir undo the top button of his uniform, yet now it was the only thing he could focus on. Distantly, he heard Sisko and Dax continue on, snapping every branch in the forest along the way. Garak couldn’t make his legs move, nor pull his eyes away from the exposed hollow of the doctor’s throat.

“Garak?”

He could _taste_ Bashir in the air between them, thick as honey. There were no comparisons he could draw, save that it was as distinct and familiar to him as was the doctor’s face to his eyes. Words, his skill and favored shield, had failed him.

He clenched his teeth so forcefully his jaw ached.

“Your pupils are dilated.” Julian’s brow knit downward in concern. Fingertips pressed into his wrist and Garak’s heart bruised with the force at which it jumped inside his chest. “And your pulse is erratic—“

“I’m fine.” The words felt tight in his mouth.

“The hell you are.” The doctor gripped his wrist fully now—as if Garak would pull away—and Garak felt his entire left arm erupt like phaser fire.

“It—it would be best if you refrained from touching me,” he managed, his voice coming out strangled.

Julian didn’t let go. Garak had to close his eyes as the burning heat pulsed up his arm in waves. “Garak, what’s wrong?”

He debated lying—letting the exquisite pain of the doctor’s touch continue until he blacked out, or did something far more foolish. But then he forced his eyes open again. And there was the doctor, leaning close, eyes hypnotic and golden. “There was a plant.” Each word might have been latinum for how heavy they felt. Each pulling him closer and closer into the doctor’s orbit. “The pollen…”

Bashir’s eyes widened.

He must have guessed, surely that must have been a flash of recognition in his eyes. But words, it seemed, had abandoned the good doctor as well: his mouth parted as if to speak, but no sound came. It drew Garak’s gaze—his mouth so often spouting inane literary theories, the slight bow of his lips—and Cardassian hearing was poor, but standing this close not even he could miss the sharp hitch of breath.  
  
Emboldened by the sound—heady with it, really—Garak shifted closer, crowding too close for the heat, too intimately to be mistaken...

 

And Julian  _shivered_.


	11. "fever" pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka 'the one with the sex pollen.' part two.
> 
> relationship established

 

“Bashir to Sisko.”

 

“Sisko here.”

 

“Garak may have been exposed to a, uh, plant-based contagion.”

 

“What kind of contagion?”

 

Garak’s thumb dipped low on the doctor’s hip and Julian took a careful, measured breath. “I’m not sure. I advise giving all flower-bearing flora a wide berth until I can ascertain the effects. Permission to return to the shuttle for treatment?”

 

“Granted. Standard quarantine protocols, doctor.”

 

“Yes, sir. Bashir out.”

 

No sooner had the transmission cut than Garak was kissing him. Alone in an alien jungle, he burned his growing fever into the slant of that too-familiar mouth and Julian moaned – _“yes, yes”_ —his hands gripping great fistfuls of Garak’s tunic. Garak surged forward, fixated on the sound, the intoxicating taste, and felt the doctor’s body curve into his. So very human in his soft, implicit trust.

“I could kill you,” Garak murmured against his mouth.

“You wouldn’t,” Julian breathed—the absolute certainty there a slice of steel through the fever heat—and then, “you _are_.”

And Julian didn’t push him away. He pulled him close, close—closer still—and Garak went. Every touch, every sound pulled from the good doctor sharpened his focus. The fever roiled beneath his skin, but so long as he could touch the doctor, feel his hot skin against his own, he could keep it at bay, could keep from being consumed by it. Julian tore his mouth away, panting.

“Computer—” Garak rolled his hips and Julian all but gasped: “—two to beam up.”

They rematerialized in the middle of shuttle, a tangle of limbs. The recycled air was icy cold against their sweat-sheened skin and Julian shivered deliciously again in the cage of his arms.

“You know about this?” Garak demanded, punctuating his words with a drag of teeth against the thin skin of his throat.

“ _Yes_.” Half a sigh, Julian tried to gather his thoughts—and Garak’s hands. “Kirk once---“

Garak’s knee pressed in and up and Julian didn’t finish the thought. The back of his head hit the wall and his breath hitched just short of moaning as he scrambled for purchase. One hand settled sharply on the slope of his shoulder and it was Garak’s turn to bite back a sound.

“I did a term paper on it.”

“Of course you did.”

In retaliation, Julian dug his fingers hard into the ridges of his neck. Garak swore, vision going white. Julian didn’t waste the advantage and with his newfound leverage, he ground down and, while Garak was still recovering, did something entirely sinful with his tongue.

Somehow, Garak found the words to ask, “Contagious?”

Julian shook his head, “No.” Then, in a miraculous display of will, he forced himself to stop, body still trembling. He took Garak’s face in both his hands, stilling them both, and very deliberately repeated “ _no_.”

The significance of his meaning wasn’t lost on the Cardassian, and when Garak grinned like every metaphor of cats and canaries, Julian’s toes positively curled. “ _Good._ ”

The mention of contagion, however, served to remind him that he was in fact a doctor. He pulled back to scan the cramped shuttle for his medical supplies, though it was a touch difficult to concentrate against the friction of Garak’s thigh. Unlike Kirk, he was certain there were other ways to eliminate the contagion without fucking it out of the patient.

“I can—“ He flung out his hand, knocking the medcase and sending it clattering to the shuttle floor. “I can fix this.”

“You already are,” Garak answered. And while the fever burned in his voice and in his hands, everywhere and all at once—his eyes, fixed on Julian’s, were a bright, _clear_ blue. “Attend to your patient, doctor."


	12. "exhaustion"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-relationship

It was the sort of thing that tended to creep up on you. More than a long night in the infirmary or a too-long week, this kind of exhaustion was rooted. Bone-deep. And Julian couldn’t shake it.

He’d tried of course. He’d taken Miles up on another kayaking trip through the Holosuites, but that had only ended with him wet and cold on top of everything else. He’d even taken time away from the Infirmary, trusting in Nurse Jabara and the others to fill in during a particularly slow day. He’d spent his day off trying (and failing) to sleep, trying (and failing) to read a poetry collection passed along by his mother, before he gave up and returned to work where at least he was being productive.

Perhaps it was the war.

He’d lost count of the number of studies coming out of Starfleet regarding the longterm of effects of prolonged combat. How consistently elevated adrenaline and blood pressure could stress the body’s skeletal-muscular system. Not to mention the psychological toll; Captain Sisko as the Emissary of the Prophets, the Dominion bent on conquering the Alpha Quadrant, and Deep Space Nine in the middle of it all.

He walked into Garak’s shop a full two hours before their planned lunch rendezvous.

The other man looked up from a pile of I’danian Lace—polite greeting half-formed—before he saw who it was. If Julian had surprised him, he didn’t show it. Rather, he gave the doctor an appraising look, expertly disentangling himself from the swaths of material.

“You look dreadful, doctor—"  
  
“ _Thank you,_ Garak _._ ” 

“—if you don’t mind me saying so,” the tailor finished, flashing a conciliatory smile. Julian rolled his eyes, but Garak was already clearing a place for him near the cutting table and there was never any real heat in their banter. He’d slid into the offered seat automatically and, though he’d only just been sitting in his office, it felt good to be off his feet.

“Do you mind if I, just…sit here?”  
  
“Not at all! I welcome the company.” Garak gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. “Can I get you anything?” 

“No, no.” Julian waved the offer aside. “I’m fine, thank you.”

He watched the other man resume whatever it was he’d been doing before Julian had darkened his doorstep, and tried not to feel like an imposition.

“What are you working on?”

“Oh this and that,” Garak deflected, holding a swath of fabric up to the light. “Commander Worf’s weekly mending, of course.”

“Of course,” Julian echoed, smiling despite his weariness. Garak caught him at it, his own mouth curling at the corners. He might have had a quick comment, but he set it aside this time—leaving Julian tucked in the back corner of the shop and continuing to do whatever it was a tailor did during the day when they weren’t interrupted by tired doctors.

(A cup of hot,Tarkalean tea sat at Julian’s elbow and he took a sip before realizing he had no idea how or when it had gotten there.)

Meanwhile, Garak drifted around him—sometimes retrieving tools and swatches from the table; other times disappearing into the backroom for minutes before reappearing with arms full of clothing. He never managed to be gone long enough that Julian felt compelled to follow or to leave, and he never asked him why he had come.

He leaned back against the wall of fabric—carefully, so as not to disrupt Garak’s careful arrangement—and watched the other man work with a growing sense of ease. Never rushing, there was still an efficiency to his movement—no gesture or flourish out of place—as he moved through his commissions; hemming, cutting, stitching, mending.

 

It was peaceful, in its way. Julian could see the appeal, even when the alternative was a life of espionage and intrigue. Unlike their lunches, which were always vocal (even on the days their discussions didn’t descend to impassioned conflict), here in his shop Garak seemed content with silence. For his part, Julian hesitated to break it—eventually, he realized he had nothing really to say.

It was enough just to sit there, comfortable in each other’s company. Julian fell asleep like that—chin still propped heavily in his hand and the soft susurrus of Garak’s footsteps passing back and forth, back and forth.


	13. "torture"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> established relationship

 

“I thought I knew torture, but _this_ …” 

“Oh please. Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic?”

“You’re telling me this classified as the peak of 20th century literature?” Garak waved the offensive padd between them. Its uniform and slim mechanics belied the extensive size and density of the original novel, but the weight of it seemed to come through in the force with which Garak was gesticulating.

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s interminable.”  
  
Julian frowned (choosing, wisely, to direct it at the table’s bowl of fruit rather than his partner), before explaining, “I figured that’s _why_ you would like it.” 

“The protagonist, if you can even call him that, is entirely useless – there’s no drive and no point,” Garak insisted. “And the work itself is entirely derivative.”

“Well, yes, actually.”

Garak paused.

“I beg your pardon?”

Julian shrugged, plucking a yellow plum from the display. “Most scholars now agree that another writer of the time, a Gertrude Stein, was the first and truest chronicler of that movement.”

He took a too-large bite, the tart juice catching at the corners of his mouth, and gestured vaguely—fruit in hand. “The number of those who lauded its literary genius was in fact inversely proportional to those who’d actually read it.”

Garak splayed one hand across the data padd. “Are you saying, _you knew_ —and you gave it to me regardless?”

Julian had the gall to _grin_.

“Are you _trying_ to start an argument?”

His grin widened—“yes, I am”—and Garak narrowed his eyes, his mounting ire replaced with a sharp suspicion. The look sent a scintillating thrill down Julian’s spine.

“Cardassian or human?”

“Oh, _Cardassian_. Definitely.”

 

Nothing more needed to be said after that, and the evening’s literature was abandoned for far more…pleasant diversions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the novel referenced is, quite obviously, james joyce's "ulysses"


	14. "electrocution" pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part one.
> 
> pre-relationship  
> [ft. jadzia & julian being bros.]

 

“Kira to Doctor Bashir?” 

Julian tapped his commbadge, “Bashir here; what is it, Major?”

“A message for you from DS9.” Kira relayed, sounding more curt than usual.

Julian glanced at Jadzia, who shrugged. Who would be sending him a message? All the senior staff, save Worf, were on the Defiant, and he sincerely doubted the Klingon would be sending subspace messages to him of all people.

“Who?”

“…I’m not sure.” It wasn’t Julian’s imagination; she sounded distinctly peeved. “It’s encoded.”

Dax’s eyebrow arched—intrigued enough to finally look away from her calculations. She folded her arms and turned her full attention on Julian. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose, confusion gone.

“Put it through down here, please. I assure you it’s nothing urgent.”

A brief hesitation. “You’re sure?”

He was already at the main panel, minimizing the biogenics readings to clear room for the vidscreen. “Unequivocally.”

The commlink cut with its usual soft fizzle—a sound only he was apparently able to hear—and a moment later, the message file appeared in front of him. Rather than the usual sequence code that prefaced the data transfer, the content and code appeared to be inextricably looped together—a knotted sequence of alphanumeric lines that revolved in a jumbled sphere. He felt Jadzia at his shoulder.

“What a beautiful mess,” she commented.

Julian hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, eyes darting across the screen. In a matter of seconds he’d already considered and discarded a dozen different possibilities—all too simplistic, too obvious. Jadzia started to point at something and he swatted her hand away, fingers already flying over the console—instinct driving ahead of conscious recognition. Fifty-seven keystrokes and the scramble unraveled. The video data opened and Garak’s face was revealed.

“ _Well…_ ” Jadzia murmured, but Julian wasn’t listening.

“—is quite rude, you know,” Garak was saying. “I’ll admit it was a bald move, though not terribly surreptitious—one I shall remember the next time dinner is in _your_ quarters. Take care you don’t leave it in a _different quadrant_ , or I shall be quite...put-out. Perhaps you will be more discreet in returning it than you were in stealing it.”

Julian let out a sharp laugh, a retort half-formed as if an actual reply was possible, and the message ended.

“I’m sorry,” Jadzia moved directly into his line of vision. “You took what from _where_?”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“An old argument,” he insisted. “Garak thinks I’m incapable of subterfuge; that I play at spy without actually acquiring any of the skills. So I… _borrowed_ a puzzle-box. The night before we left.” He’d been carrying it in his pocket since they’d left the station, pulling it out whenever there was a moment’s downtime and idly fiddling with it. He took it out now to show Dax. Cardassian-made, he’d been delighted to find it far more complex than human or even Vulcan puzzles—so much so that he’d yet to make any real headway with it.

Dax examined the puzzle, turning it over in her hands with mild interest. She handed it back and said, “You should tell him.”

An innocuous enough comment—obtuse even—yet, Julian hadn’t spent the majority of his life concealing his extensive genetic modifications without learning the difference between a coincidental comment and a probing one. Jadzia was obnoxiously perceptive, particularly for a Trill. Paired with her dogged tenacity, it was… _inconvenient_.

He performed his part with decided exasperation: he shook his head twice, pulled his smile into amusement, and—yes, that was good—made a noise not quite a chuckle, not quite a scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jadzia.”

The Eyebrow (truly worthy of its own trademark at this point) remained raised.

“Can we get back to work?” he demanded. Jadzia raised both hands in faux-surrender, though he was sure this particular battle was far from over if her smirk was any indication.

 

Normally, he’d jump at any opportunity to work with Dax—despite a shared division, medical and science rarely intersected except in the most dire of circumstances. At the moment he was regretting the collaboration. Due to the wormholes unusually high level of verteron particles, there’d been some speculation about whether or not that energy could be harnessed and used to modify the Defiant’s experimental propulsion system. The “Prophets” had been sufficiently powered to drag an entire Dominion fleet back through the wormhole, and Dax had been tasked with figuring out _how_ they’d done it. No small feat, carrying not an insignificant amount of risk.

Which was why Julian had spent the last six hours posted up in Engineering rather than the medbay. It was entirely possible that those same self-sustaining energy particles accounted for the molecular makeup of the Prophets, giving them a psychic shape yet the ability to manipulate corporeal objects. A theory that might answer Captain Sisko’s questions, and one proving nearly impossible to test.

Pointedly turning his back to Jadzia, he returned to his datapadd and the calculations he’d been revising. With the Defiant at impulse, it was easier to parse verterons from neutrinos, yet ‘easier’ was a long way from ‘easy.’ Still, maths were a comfort and he was quickly drawn into the distraction, leaning over the propulsion console as his latest formula began parsing through possible gene structures.

Which was when the warp-core turned itself on.

Julian took a step back. “Jadzia..?”

She was already working furiously at the main computer. “I see it.”

“What—“

Blue-white light shot outward in a series of concentric rings—each one flaring as they collided with Julian’s body, his expression less pain than one of soft, half-grasped shock. His face, turned to her in disbelief, was the last thing Dax saw.

Engineering flooded white; she didn’t see where it began, but the concussive wave of force hit her all the same, slamming her back into the bulkhead. Her body crumpled to the deck. Still conscious, head-ringing, Dax fought the pain, forcing her eyes open against the tears. Spots warped across her vision, blurring conduits and the now-inert warp coil, but she saw enough.

 

Julian was gone.


	15. "stranded" pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part two.
> 
> pre-relationship

 

Being dead got very old, very quickly.

 

He honestly hadn’t expected, well… _this._ An existence after-the-fact where he was relegated to the shadows and light plays that seemed to exist between things; present, but not. Whether a ghost, or a soul, or a unified shape of particles still bound by lingering inter-electrical bonds—he found rather early on that the science of it was of little interest. Or consequence. Knowing wouldn’t change being. 

He’d attempted to “haunt” Kira—knowing how much she’d hate it—and then Miles, but apparently, it didn’t work that way. He was cut off from his friends and the station. Able to look, but no longer to be a part of.

It was also uncomfortable, painful really, to watch his friends slide into grief. It didn’t happen right away, of course. Too many strange circumstances had befallen the crew in their time serving aboard the station—mutated, mind-locked, and caught in alternate dimensions. Nothing was assumed to be what it was anymore when so often it was something else. More than once, a crew member stranded in time, dimension, or planetside—himself included—had been saved by the Captain’s unwillingness to lose hope or give up the search.

And they searched. Jadzia most of all. He wasn’t sure she slept at all those first few days. But there were no chroniton particles, no teleporter signatures, and no amount of prayers and threats to the Prophets revealed machinations on their part. Eventually, action bled to disbelief, disbelief to slow, bitter acceptance. As obnoxious and self-indulgent as he’d been in life, he found he didn’t want to see, to _know_ , what grieving him looked like. Whenever one of them reached that point, he moved on, slipping away between the bulkheads and towards the crowded Promenade.

On those walks, he worked on the puzzle box. Everything on his person had carried over when he’d died, leaving him his uniform, commbadge, and the puzzle box. Not much—and he’d have preferred not spend purgatory in a jumpsuit—but it was better than nothing.

For reasons he hadn’t yet allowed himself to dwell on, Julian had avoided Garak. He hadn’t seen him on the upper rings or in the Replimat when his wanderings took him there, and even when they didn’t he avoided the section of the Promenade where his shop was located.

 

 

Three weeks after the accident, there was nowhere else to go.

He slipped through the sealed door, hesitant enough to peek just a head through first. The quarters appeared empty so he stepped inside and began looking around. Everything was just as it had been the night before he’d left—the décor minimal, but not without taste. He ran a hand over the edosian orchids on the front table, a momentary pantomime. A sound from the other room startled him and he moved towards it, his hand passing through the blossoms.

Garak walked out of his bedroom, an embroidery ring in hand. Julian’s breath caught unexpectedly. It was _good_ to see him. So much so that he found himself studying his face, soaking in the familiar sight—ridges and scales and blue eyes—searching for anything, any sign, that perhaps he…

Garak hissed sharply, pulling Julian’s surprised gaze even as he pulled his own hand back from the embroidery. Blood welled at his fingertip; pricked by the needle. It couldn’t have hurt, yet he watched Garak exhale slowly through his teeth.

Julian drifted closer in his curiosity. “Oh,” he frowned. Blood had gotten on the facing, staining the white edge of a flower.

Garak cursed. It must have been that, too sharp and guttural for the Universal Translator to pick up—and, before Julian could even react, he’d thrown the entire piece across the room in a sharp and unexpected rage. Julian cried out in dismay as the wooden frame hit the wall and cracked, spilling the linen and thread across the floor.

But Garak wasn’t looking. He had spun around, nearly knocking over his chair, and was staring intently at a spot just below Julian’s left ear.

Julian froze. Heat rushed to his cheeks at having been caught eavesdropping—but then…he remembered. He sighed—an old reaction from when he used to have breath, used to be _alive_ —and his shoulders slumped. Rude or not, no one would know if he was there or not, if he caught them sneaking one more chocolate or swapping out Klingon opera datarods for recordings of screeching Cyto-bats.  
  


Garak was still staring.

  
There was an intensity in his face that Julian recognized. He’d seen it before, in those infrequent moments where he allowed the tailor’s mask to slip, and the operative beneath, the star pupil of Enabran Tain, was revealed. It unnerved the doctor. But also…

“Garak?” He ventured—holding his ground against the hope trying to rise in his chest. But Garak gave no indication that he had heard him; not a twitch or flicker. And after another long pause, even the set of his gaze—at what, Julian couldn’t say—lowered at last, the tension in his body dissipating. Julian deflated, feeling all at once foolish and more lonely than ever before.

 

 

Where once he’d avoided the other man, Julian now spent most of his time in Garak’s shadow.

He didn’t… _talk_ much. He noticed rather quickly, and with some alarm, that apart from banter with customers—urging them towards this or that, tactfully steering them away from blatant Mistakes, and measurements recited and recorded—Garak was notably silent. He knew the other man had continued his breakfasts with Odo following the accident because he’d deliberately found other crewmembers to haunt on mornings when the constable headed to the Replimat. Yet though it was harder to keep track of the days with so little to do, Julian was certain it had been over a week since he’d fallen into orbit around Garak, and every day he took breakfast—alone—in his quarters.

Though he liked to think his ghostly presence was somehow felt, Julian knew it wasn’t the same. There were no more lunchtime arguments. Or _dinner_ arguments. No more translation practice of ancient Kardasi texts—though he could read with totally comprehension, his accent was still atrocious and, he supposed, would remain so for all eternity.

He wished there was something he could do, but there was nothing. Only the puzzle box he’d stolen, one-third of his after-life possessions, connected them now. A thread that was pulled taut with each twist and turn. The Cardassians were clever, but Julian had time. He’d tried to hold back, to keep his intellect in check for the sake of his sanity, but he couldn’t help himself. Sitting on the arm of Garak’s couch, his legs folded up underneath him, he solved it.

The last corner spun inward and locked into place, the intricate design at last unfolded: the box had become a perfect sphere.

No sooner had he completed it, than the sphere fell—not out of, but _through_ his hands. It hit the carpet with a dull **thud** that brought Garak to his feet, and the very real, very _solid_ sphere rolled across the floor, coming to a stop against Garak’s shoe.

Even as he bent to pick it up, Garak recognized it—Julian knew it instantly. And when his hand closed around what had only moments before been intangible, Julian’s heart clenched too. Garak’s voice was steady:

“Doctor?”

Heat burned across his chest, the sudden rush of hope like a promise, like something alive, and it was enough. Enough to pull him through the divide and he flickered into ghostly existence for just a moment. And Garak _saw him_. He knew he did—his own shock mirrored on the Cardassian’s face.

For a moment they just stared at one another. And then, desperately, Julian reached out—but the sharp fall of Garak’s face told him it was too late microseconds before his hand passed through Garak’s chest and the urgent sound of his name was heard by no one but himself.

 

Julian had vanished again.


	16. "hostage" pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part three.
> 
> pre-relationship

“If this has all been an elaborate ruse on your part, doctor,” Garak muttered under his breath, “It is in poor taste.”

 

“Of course not!” Julian exclaimed, indignant. He may have been molecularly destabilized, but even so he had to use the full length of his stride to keep up with Garak. The other man was moving at a deceptively brisk pace. It was a wonder no one else in the ring seemed to notice.

A huff. “We’ll be having words regardless.”

Julian’s smile spilled over. “I look forward to it."

A young Andorian gave Garak a strange look, antennae twitching. Garak beamed pleasantly in return, even as the youth gave him a wide berth in the corridor. As soon as he had passed, Garak’s scowl filled the empty hall. 

“Now I’m talking to myself.”

“Technically, yes, you are—“ Julian hummed—amused at the tailors unamusement. “Technically, not."

He supposed that was of little comfort to Garak, even if he had been able to hear him. Still—everything was far more entertaining now that he knew he wasn’t dead. Not dead, capable of corporealizing for at least 10 seconds, and on his way to the bridge.

Garak’s eyes cut over. They almost lined up with Julian’s own and for a half-stuttering second he wondered if he’d managed to do it again— _appear_ , find his way back from the inbetween by the sheer pull of Garak— “If you _are_ there…”

Julian’s heart sunk—just a little. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised earnestly.

“—you had best make it up to me.”

Julian’s hand slipped through Garak’s shoulder, intangible still, though his chest felt that same hopeful heat. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

 

\--

 

“We all want him back, Garak—“

“I assure you, Commander—“ Garak cut in. “It was no hallucination, figment, or mistake. He was in my quarters as clearly as you are here now.”

“Mr. Garak—"

“Though I _am_ hurt my word alone is not enough, I, of course, have proof.” And he pulled out the puzzle box.

The senior staff stared blankly at the sphere, but Dax—”Is that..?”

“Yes, Dax, _yes_ ,” Julian pleaded. Bless her. Bless Jadzia and that brilliant old brain of hers.

“You’ve seen this?” Garak looked at her sharply.

“I think so.” Her brow furrowed. Julian was pacing between them now, _willing_ her to recognize—to remember.

Garak pressed a whorl in the lacquered wood, and before the assembled crew the sphere blossomed open, previously smooth curves revolving into edges and sharp corners.

Julian huffed. “Well that’s hardly fair.”

In Garak’s palm sat the puzzle box. Jadzia snatched it up. She turned it over and over in her hands with a reverent care, as though it were something sacred. “He—he had this with him, when…” she looked intensely at Garak. “He stole this from you.”

“And has now returned it. I suggest we do the same for the doctor.”

 

\--

 

It was _nice_ to see his friends’ energy renewed regarding his untimely and exaggerated demise; though, if he was being honest, he’d sort of imagined things progressing a bit quicker than they had. Jadzia would have had some brilliant insight, Miles would have bent the acceptable limits of the station of the Defiant to make it happen, and Kira, he imagined, would have taken turns with Odo pacing in what they apparently thought was a motivating manner.

Instead, another week had passed with little change—other than his own growing impatience. A sentiment Garak had graciously taken to vocalizing on his behalf.

“So much for Federation ingenuity,” Garak scoffed as the door to his quarters whooshed shut behind him. Not ten minutes ago, he’d been forcibly removed from Ops by Worf before his wife could enact the threats she’d been muttering under her breath for the previous hour. Julian floated through the bulkhead just behind him. “I suppose they normally have you to thank for that—though, I’ll deny ever saying it.”

 

 

“How do you always know I’m here?” Julian asked; hesitating at the edge of the living room while Garak puttered around. “ _Why_ —“

He didn’t continue. It didn’t seem fair, somehow, to ask when Garak couldn’t hear it.

“I could have left you know,” he said instead. He folded his arms over his chest and frowned at Garak, as if it were somehow _his_ fault. “Stayed with Jadzia in the lab—it would have been the sensible thing to do. You know…stayed where the scientists were? What if she finds a way to bring me back, only I’m not there because I’m here. Watching you dither over bad and worse poetry.”

Garak _was_ dithering. Something Julian had never once seen him do. His hands full of data-padds, he kept shuffling them, one over the other, making short, dismissive noises. It was unbelievably annoying. Julian rubbed at his temple.

“The fearsome, Cardassian spy.”

Julian shook his head. If only his younger self could see them now. Perhaps he would have been a little less jumpy that afternoon in the replimat and a little more…

_…fond_.

That was the rub, wasn’t it? Why he’d avoided Garak for so long after he’d “died,” why he was here now instead of with Jadzia or Miles. Why he’d stolen the puzzle box in the first place. Dax had seen right through his bluster, right through him—and now, ironically, all he wanted was to be seen. He’d gotten unprecedented access to his elusive friend, all but invaded his privacy entirely, and instead of unearthing secrets, he’d found only…Garak.

Plain, simple Garak.

Julian leaned down. It took all of his focus to hover his hand _just so_ against Garak’s jaw, to complete the illusion in every way but touch—as though through sheer will alone he could make this moment real. Sight was all that tethered him to the tangible world – he couldn’t smell the clean cool air of Garak’s quarters, or exchange actual words, actual touch – but right then, looking down into Garak’s familiar face, he felt real again.

And when he kissed him, that felt real too.

The softest drag of mouth against mouth. It tingled like he’d touched his tongue to a wire. Maybe that was whatever barrier that was keeping him just out of step with the rest of the universe, maybe it was little more than a forcefield that held him back.  But it tasted like kanar.

Garak’s hand closed around his wrist and he could _feel_ it—the cool pressure, the jump of his own pulse under his fingers—and if it was all in his head, then it was a dream he didn’t want to let go of. He sighed, the sound swallowed by Garak’s mouth, the drag of teeth against his lower lip—because he was kissing him and _Garak was kissing him back_. And for 10…20…30 seconds he was himself again, crystallizing on the force of desire Garak was too surprised to temper with caution.

But he did, of course. Because he was Garak. And when the theories and the calculations crept in...Julian slipped away, fingers catching on the scales of Garak’s jaw and then on nothing at all.

“ _Damnit._ ”

His mouth was hot and he couldn’t look at Garak’s face. Frustrated and more than a little embarrassed, he surged forward—through Garak, through the couch. He didn’t stop. Through the wall, through the table and the vase of Edosian orchids, and out the bulkhead.

Something shattered behind him, but he wouldn’t look back—didn’t want to see the look on the Cardassian’s face or hear whatever Garak might offer up to a ghost in the empty silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> should probably (and will probably) just pull this monster into a single standalone.


End file.
